Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Look At The Clock !

I told you my darling was a precocious reader. For the last five or six years she's had bedtime stories read to her, and we've pretty much done the 'classic' children's classics - Magic Faraway Tree, A.A. Milne, Beatrix Potter, Wind in the Willows, Little Wooden Horse, Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson, Treasure Island (twice), Lewis Carroll, Moonfleet, King Arthur's Knights, Robin Hood, Arabian Nights, Oliver Twist... she liked poetry too - the Nancy Bell and Ancient Mariner sparked an interest in the old ballads - particularly those with unhappy endings. Patrick Spens, Long Lankin, the Inchcape Rock - she can't get enough of that sort of stuff.

I wasn't sure about throwing a few of the Ingoldsby Legends at her - the rhymes, while the most inventive I know, are sometimes complex, the Reverend Barham likes to digress, and all the poems are full of allusions to the popular culture of the (early Victorian) day. I'm sure there's room for a copiously footnoted edition explaining all his allusions.

The Ingoldsby Legends - a collection of poems, legends, and ghost stories supposedly written by Squire Thomas Ingoldsby of Tappington Manor, were tremendously popular in their day (Churchill and Hardy, among others, quote them in their own work) but are now out of print. A pity as I've never read anyone else who can rhyme like he can - puts Ogden Nash in the shade.

'Look at the Clock!' quoth Winifred Pryce,As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,'You nasty Varmint, look at the Clock!Is this the way, youWretch, every day youTreat her who vow'd to love and obey you?Out all night!Me in a fright;Staggering home as it's just getting light!You intoxified brute! you insensible block!Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!'

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes:A face like a ferretBetoken'd her spirit:To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David PryceHad one darling vice;Remarkably partial to anything nice,Nought that was good to him came amiss,Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!Especially ale --If it was not too staleI really believe he'd have emptied a pail;Not that in WalesThey talk of their Ales;To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

That particular day,As I've heard people say,Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,The whole afternoon at the Goat in Boots,With a couple more soakers,Thoroughbred smokers,Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;And, long after day had drawn to a close,And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,They were roaring out 'Shenkin!' and 'Ar hydd y nos;'While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,Sang, 'We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!'What have we with day to do?Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!'--At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,Old 'Goat-in-Boots' show'd them the door;And then came that knock,And the sensible shockDavid felt when his wife cried, 'Look at the Clock!'

For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

This self-same Clock had long been a boneOf contention between this Darby and Joan;And often among their pother and rout,When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,Pryce would drop a cool hint,With an ominous squintAt its case, of an 'Uncle' of his, who'd a 'Spout.'That horrid word 'Spout'No sooner came out,Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,And with scorn on her lip,And a hand on each hip,'Spout' herself till her nose grew red at the tip.'You thundering villain,I know you'd be killingYour wife,-- ay, a dozen of wives,-- for a shilling!You may do what you please,You may sell my chemise,(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock,)But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!'

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;But patience is apt to wear out at last,And David Pryce in temper was quick,So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,But walking just then wasn't very convenient,So he threw it, instead,Direct at her head.It knock'd off her hat;Down she fell flat;Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:But, whatever it was,-- whether rage and painProduced apoplexy, or burst a vein,Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,I can't say for certain,-- but this I can,When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!

The fearful catastropheNamed in my last stropheAs adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,Soon made a great noise; and the shocking fatalityRan over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.Mr. Pryce to commenceHis 'ingenious defence,'Made a 'powerful appeal' to the jury's 'good sense,''The world he must defyEver to justifyAny presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'The unlucky lickFrom the end of his stickHe 'deplored,' he was 'apt to be rather too quick;'But, really, her pratingWas so aggravating:Some trifling correction was just what he meant; allThe rest, he assured them, was 'quite accidental!'

Then he called Mr. Jones,Who deposed to her tones,And her gestures, and hints about 'breaking his bones.'While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap RhysDeclared the DeceasedHad styled him 'a Beast,'And swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,The allusions she made to his limbs and his eyes.The jury, in fine, having sat on the bodyThe whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy,Return'd about half-past eleven at nightThe following verdict, 'We find, Sarve her right!'

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he saidHe would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,From the vale proudly swelling,Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling,For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so fewThat the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,Have really but little or nothing to do;And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by farOn the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.Its first syllable, 'Pen,'Is pronounceable;-- thenCome two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:But we shan't have to mention it often, so whenWe do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to 'Pen.'

Well,-- the moon shone brightUpon 'Pen' that night,When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,Was scaling its sideWith that sort of strideA man puts out when walking in search of a bride,Mounting higher and higher,He began to perspire,Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,And feeling opprestBy a pain in his chest,He paused, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest;A walk all up hill is apt, we know,To make one, however robust, puff and blow,So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below.

O'er fell, and o'er fen,Over mountain and glen,All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and thenAll the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thoughtOf Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taughtOf her Heroes of old,So brave and so bold,--Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold;Of King Edward the First,Of memory accurst;And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,Killing Poets by dozens,With their uncles and cousins,Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved.Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;And how Mr. TudorSuccessfully woo'd herTill the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,And so made him Father-in-law to the King.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,On Gryffth ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,Which went pit-a-patAs he cried out, 'What's that?'--That very queer sound?Does it come from the ground?Or the air,-- from above or below, or around?It is not like Talking,It is not like Walking,It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,Or the tramp of a horse,-- or the tread of a man,--Or the hum of a crowd,-- or the shouting of boys,--It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!Not unlike a Cart's,-- but that can't be; for whenCould 'all the King's horses and all the King's men,'With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up 'Pen?'

Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,Now experienced what schoolboys denominate 'funk.'In vain he look'd backOn the whole of the trackHe had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,And did not seem likely to pass away soon;While clearer and clearer,'Twas plain to the hearer,Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,Very much 'like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.'

Mr. Pryce had begunTo 'make up' for a run,As in such a companion he saw no great fun,When a single bright rayShone out on the wayHe had pass'd, and he saw, with no little dismay,Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,The deceased Mrs. Winifred's 'Grandmother's Clock!!''Twas so!-- it had certainly moved from its place,And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,And nothing was alter'd at all -- but the Face!In that he perceived, with no little surprise,The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyesBlazing with ire,Like two coals of fire;And the 'Name of the Maker' was changed to a Lip,And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.No!-- he could not mistake it,--' twas She to the life!The identical Face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough,Completely 'Quant. suff.'As the doctors write down when they send you their 'stuff,'--Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff,David turn'd himself round;Ten feet of groundHe clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses,I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises,At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,And one from a Bailiff much faster than that;At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder,I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder,I've seen little boys run away from a cane,And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain;But I never did readOf, or witness, such speedAs David exerted that evening.-- IndeedAll I ever have heard of boys, women, or men,Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over 'Pen!'

He reaches its brow,--He has past it, and nowHaving once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, heRolls down the side with uncommon velocity;But, run as he will,Or roll down the hill,That bugbear behind him is after him still!And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,Till, exhausted and sore,He can't run any more,But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,'Oh! Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!!'

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,She saw nothing there to alarm her;-- a frownCame o'er her white forehead,She said, 'It was horridA man should come knocking at that time of night,And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;To squall and to bawlAbout nothing at all,She begg'd 'he'd not think of repeating his call,His late wife's disasterBy no means had past her,'She'd 'have him to know she was meat for his Master!'Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes,She turn'd on her heel and she turned up her nose.

Poor David in vainImplored to remain,He 'dared not,' he said, 'cross the mountain again.'Why the fair was obdurateNone knows,-- to be sure, itWas said she was setting her cap at the Curate;--Be that as it may, it is certain the sole holePryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!

In that shady retreat,With nothing to eat,And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,All night close he kept;I can't say he slept;But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept,Lamenting his sinsAnd his two broken shins,Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,Consigning to Satan,-- viz. cruel Miss Davis!

Mr. David has since had a 'serious call,'He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,And they say he is going to Exeter HallTo make a grand speech,And to preach, and to teachPeople that 'they can't brew their malt-liquor too small!'That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor,Was right in proclaiming 'Ariston men Udor!'Which means 'The pure ElementIs for the belly meant!'And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!

And 'still on each evening when pleasure fills up,'At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,Mr Pryce, if he's there,Will get into 'the Chair,'

And make all his quondam associates stareBy calling aloud to the landlady's daughter,'Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!'The dial he constantly watches; and whenThe long hand's at the 'XII,' and the short at the 'X,'He gets on his legs,Drains his glass to the dregs,Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,And says solemnly,--'Gentlemen!'Look at the Clock!!!'